Pieces and Phone Calls
by Hekate1308
Summary: A phone call between two therapists, and the consequences thereof.


**Author's note: You are not going to believe it, but I have written a story about characters no one ever thinks about... shocking, right?**

**I don't own anything, please review.**

They were on a cruise when the news reached them.

She had recommended a tour around the world to Henry while he was trying to wrap his head around the things Sherlock Holmes had uncovered – a fresh start, a chance to relax, far away from the moor his father died in.

He had agreed, but only under the condition that she'd join him. She hadn't had to think about it for long. True, she had other patients, but Henry was different; he needed her. He didn't need just "a psychiatrist", he needed _her_. So she said yes, and they were off.

They flew from London to Cannes at the first of April, and kept travelling from country to country, wherever Henry wanted to be. He was becoming stronger, more confident, every day, now that he knew that his father had been right, now that he knew he wasn't insane. Now and then, she felt guilty for having doubted him.

Now and then, she felt... something else she didn't want to think about. There were boundaries she shouldn't cross.

They read John's blog, of course. Henry was more grateful than he could express, both to John and Sherlock Holmes, and she understood this only too well. Sherlock Holmes had saved his father's reputation and his mind.

At the beginning of June, they went on a cruise boat in Genoa, since Henry wanted to visit several Greek islands and had decided a cruise would be a nice change, after they'd travelled mostly by plane. She agreed with him, and when he smiled at her and his eye sparkled, she had a hard time reminding herself that he was her patient.

When the articles started to appear – they still had an internet connection – proclaiming that Sherlock was a fraud, they hadn't believed it. Henry had actually got angry – Louise had never seen him angry before – and told anyone who wanted to listen that "Kitty Riley was a vile woman who only wanted to have a big story". She believed the same. She had only met John, but Sherlock Holmes had solved the mystery how Henry's father had died – and proved her wrong in the process. He'd made Henry whole – how could he have researched all of that, Frankland's guilt, the experiment, the plan to have Henry declared insane, before meeting him? It was utterly implausible, if not impossible.

They had talked about it for hours, hoping that everything would be fine. Henry had thought about writing John an e-mail, but decided against it, because "the last thing John needs right now is someone who tells him that Sherlock isn't a liar – he knows that himself".

And then Sherlock had jumped.

She'd never seen Henry so shocked before. She'd seen him scared, unsure, by now even angry. But never that shocked. He might have been shocked when he found out his father's best friend had killed him – but he'd never been so utterly baffled as when he read about Sherlock Holmes' suicide, and she had to agree with him again.

Because while she might not have met him personally, she had read about him on the blog, and looked at his homepage, and she thought him – well, while not completely sane, she certainly didn't believe he was suicidal.

Henry was grieving, and trying not to, she could tell. When she talked to him about it, he admitted that he felt he had no right to grieve – he had been one of Sherlock's clients, not his friend. When she answered that that wasn't what friendship was about, he informed her that he'd told Sherlock something along the same lines, on the moor. "Mates are mates".

So she said that he had every right to grieve, if he felt that Sherlock had been important enough to him. He smiled and answered, "He was. But not as important as he was to John." And she saw the worry in his eyes.

John Watson had found a new purpose in Sherlock Holmes, she could tell that much, even if she'd only talked to him briefly – the blog said enough. And now that purpose was gone.

Henry would feel better if he knew how John was doing, she was sure of it.

So, after three weeks of deliberation – they were spending a fortnight in Athens, and he'd insisted that a bouquet should be sent to Sherlock's funeral – she decided to do something completely unethical.

She would have liked to think "for a change", but seeing Henry grin in the sunset in front of the Acropolis, it was a hard thing to do.

Henry wouldn't call or write John, she knew. He was of the opinion that the doctor didn't need anyone to tell him how sorry they were, and maybe he was right; he knew the doctor better than Louise did, after all. And he had experience with grieving – first his mother, then his father, when he'd been a child.

But still, he wanted to know how John was taking it, she could tell.

So she told Henry to visit the National Museum without her – and tried to convince herself that he didn't look disappointed – and then took her laptop to do some research.

It wasn't difficult. John's therapist was obviously called "Ella", and all she had to do was use Google to find out her full name.

And her number.

She was put through almost immediately; it helped to be a psychiatrist when trying to talk to another one.

She didn't know how to begin, but as soon as she'd said her name, and explained that Henry Knight was one of her clients, she heard Ella sigh and knew that she had read the blog too.

"I hope you are aware that I cannot speak about my patients" the other woman said, sternly, but there was a quiver in her voice, and Louise just knew.

"But, technically speaking – is John still your patient?"

"Have you met him?"

"Once".

"So you might not know that he is of the opinion that a therapy doesn't help much – at least when it comes to him."

She had read that much out of the blog; John simply didn't believe it would work, because it hadn't worked for him. Sherlock had. But Sherlock was gone.

"So he isn't."

"That may be true, but I can't – "

Louise took a deep breath and interrupted her. "I know you can't. I know you shouldn't. But I also know that Henry Knight believed in Sherlock Holmes, is worried about John, and only hasn't contacted him because he fears it won't be welcome."

Ella was silent, for a moment. Then she said, "I'm not allowed to tell you anything". Louise's heart sank.

Then, she added, "But if I was..." and Louis started to smile.

"If I was, I could tell you that he is suffering, that he lost his best friend. That he doesn't know what to do with himself. That he needs every friend he can have."

She answered, "So, I guess you can't tell me. Never mind".

"No harm done" Ella replied, and they said their goodbyes.

When Henry returned, she told him that she'd called Ella and that John's therapist was of the opinion that the doctor would like someone to call him. He smiled and kissed her cheek, and she blushed.

Ella knew John was suffering, but she hadn't expected him to make more appointments. It had been enough that he had been there once, and had spoken the words he still so desperately wished he didn't have to.

_Sherlock Holmes, my best friend, is dead_.

She wished he wasn't (as unprofessional as it was), but nothing could bring back the dead. She also wished John would continue writing his blog, but she knew he wouldn't. Sherlock had been what made the blog so special in the first place; there was no way John would continue writing it, now that his friend was gone.

She could only hope that John had found some support in his other friends – the one he mentioned on his blog, like Mike Stamford, or his sister.

She hadn't expected Louise Mortimer to call her. Then, again, she hadn't expected anyone to call her about how John was doing. She had had a few calls from reporters, who'd of course found out very soon that she was John's therapist, and wanted to know whether he'd told her anything about Sherlock Holmes being a fraud. She had hung up every single time.

She still wasn't sure why there were certainly a few more hundred pounds in her account after she'd done so, and she preferred not to think about it.

When Louise Mortimer called, she knew she shouldn't say anything. She should just hang up.

But – Henry Knight had known Sherlock Holmes, too, and by the way it sounded, he hadn't believed for even one second that the detective was a fraud. Maybe, just maybe, somebody who believed in Sherlock could help John. Because Ella was sure that the doctor suffered. And that she couldn't help him, because what, or rather who, he needed, was lying on a cemetery.

But, just but, someone who had known and believed in Sherlock Holmes might be the next best thing.

So she told Louise Mortimer – or didn't tell her, it depended how you looked at it – what she needed to know.

And felt better for it, after she'd hung up. It might be unethical; it might be unprofessional; but still – she couldn't help but feel that it would do John some good, in the end.

A few days later, another three hundred pounds appeared on her account. She decided not to think about it too much.

Henry was worried about John. He was sad about Sherlock's death, of course he was, and convinced that the consulting detective hadn't been a fraud – nobody who knew him could be of that opinion – but mostly he was worried about John.

Which was why, when his – psychiatrist (it got more and more difficult to see her that way) told him that a call would be welcome, he didn't think about it long.

He went in his hotel room and dialled.

John answered, sounding sad. "John Watson."

"John? It's Henry. Henry Knight."

"Hello. How are you?"

It was typical of John; asking how someone else was doing when he himself must feel like he was carrying the world on his shoulders. Henry answered, "I'm fine. I'm travelling with Lou – with Doctor Mortimer".

"So she is – "

"My psychiatrist, of course".

"Of course". John chuckled, but it sounded empty. Henry drew a deep breath.

"I just – I wanted to tell you I believe in Sherlock. He wasn't a fraud. And nobody is going to convince him otherwise."

When John spoke again, after a few moments' silence, it sounded like he was trying to hold back tears.

"I – thanks, Henry. It means a lot."

Henry smiled. "No problem."

John took a deep breath, then said, slowly, "I'll – stay in touch alright?"

"Yes, do, please." Henry smiled.

"Oh, and ask Louise out to dinner. Bye". With that John hung up, and Henry decided then and there, because he felt unbelievably happy that he seemed to have helped the doctor somewhat, that he would take his advice to heart.

Louise's eyes sparkled when he asked her, and he thought that, once again, someone belonging to team Holmes had been right.

John hadn't left his new flat for a few days when Henry called, content to live inside his memories, for the time being. He hadn't thought anyone would bother to tell him that they believed in Sherlock, though he would have liked it. But everyone John was close to obviously felt they didn't need to tell him, which was fine. It was all fine.

Still, he would like someone to –

Confirm everything was real.

And then Henry called, and the world made a little bit more sense.

He smiled when he hung up, hoping that he'd convinced Henry to bring a little more joy into the world.

Then he sat back down on his sofa to watch some crap telly, not knowing that all he was doing was waiting for someone who was currently destroying a drug smuggling ring in South America.

**Author's note: For the first time, I'm sure I've written something completely original – I don't think anybody has written a similar fic. If there is one, please contact me so I can acknowledge it.**

**Btw, Henry travelling around the world is taken from the end of "The Hound Of Baskerville". As mentioned before, I read too much.**

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


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